The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower #2)(59)

“Are you coming?”

He doesn’t ask it in a taunting way. It’s more like he’s trying to gauge how I feel about this and whether or not it’s a good idea to start today.

But if I don’t cross this threshold now and start this process, I don’t think I ever will.

I do it, I put one foot forward and keep going until I’m standing in the kitchen. I flick the switch to turn the ceiling light on, bathing the room in a yellow tone.

Thayer wastes no time, I think he wants to distract me, so I don’t get lost in my thoughts, and starts spewing out questions. “What about the table? Keep? Donate? Or trash? It’s in pretty rough shape, but it could be sanded down and painted, so I’m thinking donate. And what color tape do you want to put with each category?”

I can’t help but smile at his need to keep my mind from wandering. “I think yellow for donate, green for keep, and blue for trash.”

“Okay, got it. Committing it to memory.”

“We’ll donate the table.”

He rips off a piece of yellow tape and applies it to the table.

“Chairs?”

“Also donate.”

He tabs each of the chairs with tape. “You can just point and tell me what you want to do with each thing.”

“Okay,” I sigh, looking around the space.

“Trash.” I indicate a picture across the room. It was a yard sale find shortly after my dad died. I thought the picture was so ugly—a muddy looking watercolor that reminds me of some kind of ugly wallpaper, but my mom loved it for some reason, or maybe she just loved it because it was something she could buy with her own money for the first time. “Actually, I want to keep it.”

Thayer doesn’t even question why I’d want to keep the ugly painting, he just switches the tape color and moves on.

It takes us a few hours just to go through the kitchen. I end up keeping all of the baking supplies. Despite not baking for years until I came back here, I want to keep them, and I even want to bake on my own again. I think it’ll do me good and help me feel close to her. There are a few things I put in the keep pile for Georgia as well, things she already asked for—like the cookie jar that’s shaped like a circus tent and a set of plates.

“How do you feel?” Thayer asks me, picking up the last of the donate boxes to load in his truck to drop off. We figured it would be easier to take the smaller items as we go and then when it’s all finished, we’ll rent a truck to pack up the home’s bigger items to get rid of.

“I think we made good progress, but I’m also worried about how long this will take. We spent hours on one room.”

“I don’t mean about this.” He looks around the room. “I mean about you. I know this isn’t easy.”

I pull out the kitchen chair and sit down. “Exhausted. Both emotionally and physically. But strangely … happy.” I shake my head. “That sounds so strange but it’s true. So many of these items hold memories and it’s like I get to relive them all over again.” I pick up the wooden spoon I’m keeping. “Like this.” Tears pool in my eyes. “It’s just a wooden stirring spoon to you, but I remember stirring up cupcakes with my mom when I was little and sneaking licks of the batter when she wasn’t looking. I think she knew anyway.” I set the spoon back down. “It’s nice, remembering the things I forgot.”

Thayer sets the box back down, joining me at the table. “It doesn’t sound strange. I felt the same way packing up Forrest’s room. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, but I knew for my mental health I needed to change the space. As I packed up his clothes, toys, I remembered so many good things I’d forgotten because that one day put a dark cloud over my memories.” He clears his throat, getting choked up. “Losing him was … the worst fucking day of my life. But every day he was alive was also the best day and I realized then I was letting one day overshadow all the others. Remembering didn’t feel so painful anymore after that.” He shrugs. “So, yeah, I get it.”

“Grief is weird.”

He gives a soft laugh. “Yeah, it is.”

“Do you ever wonder…” I pause, biting my lip—unsure if I should say it or not, but I decide to just go for it. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if…”

“If Forrest hadn’t died? If we’d told your mom?”

“Yeah.” I look down at the table, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I know it’s stupid, to waste time wondering when there’s nothing you can do to change the outcome but…”

“I used to,” he says softly. “All the time. But I stopped doing that a long time ago, because it was driving me insane. I’d like to think that if things had gone according to plan that your mom would’ve understood, but she also might’ve been pissed. I mean, she already knew, but making it official is different.” He sighs warily, sinking further into the chair. “And then maybe we would’ve dated a few more years. And I would’ve gotten down on one knee, proposed, and we would’ve gotten married with Forrest as my best man. But there’s also the chance that because of how young you were that the pressure would’ve been too much. Society looks much differently on the ages we are now, than what we were.” He flicks a finger between us. “That might’ve torn us apart. We don’t know.”